


Subject (to)

by Frostfire



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Dubious Consent, M/M, Royalty, the special hell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-02-28
Updated: 2009-02-28
Packaged: 2018-10-04 15:24:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10282076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frostfire/pseuds/Frostfire
Summary: Uther's never truly noticed Merlin before.





	

**Author's Note:**

> FIC OF SHAME. I swear this is _entirely_ [](http://seperis.livejournal.com/profile)[seperis](http://seperis.livejournal.com/)' fault, and I think she used mind-control rays, because age differences squick me hard, and yet somehow I wrote this anyway. I DON'T EVEN KNOW. But, um, thanks to Jenn for audiencing, and [](http://toft-froggy.livejournal.com/profile)[toft_froggy](http://toft-froggy.livejournal.com/)  for Britpicking; any remaining mistakes are mine.

The night after Merlin helps save Uther’s life, he can’t sleep.

It’s _stupid_. He’s not second-guessing himself. He knows he did the right thing. And even if he weren’t sure on his own—well, if anyone knows what’s right, it’s Gwen.

But.

_ Uther _ . Uther, who kills _implacably_ , who could execute Merlin tomorrow and probably not even remember him next week, who murders children—who holds Arthur’s soul in the palm of his hand, and doesn’t even seem to realize it, somehow.

He doesn’t hate Uther like Morgana does (he’s not remembering the look on her face). He _has_ hated him, for hours or days at a time, but it never stands for longer than that; he thinks it runs into the reality of the _king_ and falls flat, somehow.

Merlin spent a lot of time, these past few days, wishing that _king_ didn’t mean anything. That Uther was just a man, and a murderer, and when he had gone after Tom that it was one man going after another, and Merlin could have come to Tom’s defence and that would have been that.

It doesn’t work that way, though. It’s never worked that way, though he thinks he only realized _why_ on the day Uther fought the dead knight.

He hadn’t been paying much attention to Uther himself when he came in to be outfitted, too stuck on _oh hell he’s taking Arthur’s place, now what’s going to happen_ , sliding quickly into a panic when Uther decided he wanted Arthur’s sword, because it was _wrong_ and the dragon was going to kill Merlin for this and it was _wrong_ , seeing Uther heft it, swing it, sight down the blade.

He’d tried to protest, and Uther hadn’t heard him, as usual—had looked right past him, as usual—and it wasn’t as if he didn’t know; he’d learned early on that he wasn’t really a person, as far as Uther was concerned. He hadn’t yet figured out _what_ he was, exactly; the closest he could get was _more than a piece of furniture and less than a good horse_. He couldn’t command attention. Unless he was shouting about things Uther _did_ care about (like _killing_ , and _sorcery_ , and _killing_ ), Uther wasn’t going to hear a word he said.

Except—

Except, when he was jerking clumsily at the armour’s clasps, coming up with frantic babbling answers to Uther’s questions about the sword and Tom the blacksmith, Uther said, _I’m surprised Arthur went to him_ , and Merlin answered without thinking _, oh, that was me_ —and suddenly he was the object of Uther’s full, undivided attention.

He still has no idea why. He wasn’t forcing himself to be noticed, wasn’t declaiming loudly in a crowded room or making excuses for Arthur, nothing that had caused Uther to see him before. Just—tugging at armour that didn’t quite fit, being too candid with his superiors as usual, _oh, that was me_ , and Uther turned his head and looked at him.

He knew—he’d known for a long time—that there really was more to Uther’s kingship than the ability (and apparently the _need_ ) to point a finger and have someone executed. He knew that whatever magic Arthur had, to command loyalty and love and death, Uther also had it, and had owned it and used it and _lived_ it for longer than Arthur had been alive—but it hadn’t been driven home until that moment, when Uther froze his hands and his thoughts and his breath, just with a look.

He couldn’t even lie. He had to look away when he spoke. It was a little truth, _I felt he needed a better sword_ , nothing to give anything away, but he doesn’t know if he could have kept silent, if it had been a larger one. Not under the full weight of Uther’s presence, when it felt as though the room were saturated with him, making it close and hard to breathe.

His hands shook and his breath hitched while he finished readying Uther’s armour, when Uther turned his head, but kept Merlin pinned with his words, _extraordinary loyalty_ and _beyond the line of duty_ and though at first he hadn’t been able to look, when Uther turned back to him, he couldn’t look away.

Uther said, _Look after him_ , and went out to die for his son. And Merlin stayed back, and breathed, wondering blindly what had just happened.

***

The day Arthur recovers completely from the bite of the questing beast, arm out of its sling and skin healed but for a scar like any other, Uther gives in to sentiment and declares a banquet in the prince’s honour. Until this morning, when Gaius examined the area of the bite and pronounced it entirely healed, and Arthur demonstrated some too-fancy manoeuvres with his sword to prove it, he hadn’t been absolutely convinced that the bite wouldn’t do his son some more harm, but Arthur is perfectly fine, and that deserves celebration.

Arthur is certainly celebrating, released from Gaius’ care and eating and drinking with abandon. Uther has a difficult time looking away from him, shining in the torchlight ( _just like his mother_ ) laughing like any other healthy young man. Maybe if he takes in enough of this, he will be able to erase the picture of Arthur white and sweating and slipping towards death.

He isn’t the only one staring, of course; half the court is sneaking surreptitious glances to see if Arthur’s favouring his arm or if he looks sickly at all—for, Uther’s own personal horror aside, if anything happened to Arthur, this court would no longer be safe for anyone. And Morgana and her maidservant are watching him as well, deep in conversation with each other, and Gaius is keeping a narrow eye on him from the side of the hall.

And of course, Arthur’s little manservant, Merlin, scarcely strays two feet from him the entire evening. The boy’s devotion to Arthur is admirable, though he could probably stand to be possessed of a few more brains; Arthur’s been heard to complain of him fumbling the simplest tasks. Certainly whenever he comes to Uther’s attention, it seems to be through some combination of foolishness, impulsiveness, and lack of foresight. But Arthur hasn’t made any move to get rid of him, and Uther isn’t going to sack anyone who saved his son’s life without damn good reason, so while Merlin may spend more time in the stocks than any royal manservant in the history of Camelot, his position is safe.

And it might be better to keep him, in any case; Uther cannot have too much insurance toward Arthur’s life. As he has just learned. And Gaius had seemed to include Merlin in the credit for discovering that—tincture, or whatever it was, so perhaps there are more brains in there than is first apparent. And then, perhaps Uther is being too harsh; youth, after all, produces stunning examples of foolishness, impulsiveness, and lack of foresight even in the brightest of men. His own son included.

He idly searches for any other memories of Merlin showing particular intelligence, and lights on one example. Merlin outfitted him, when he was certain he was about to die, and leave Arthur alone, fatherless, and unready to rule a kingdom (but better than dead, so much better than dead). He had caught Merlin’s eyes and left Arthur in his hands, and he hadn’t regretted it, going out onto the field. Merlin had been quiet and serious then, stripped of his usual tripping babble, and he had looked directly back at Uther, and Uther had seen promise there.

Merlin is refilling Arthur’s cup, with more grace than he used to show at it, and in turning away, he looks straight at Uther. It’s a second too long before he fixes his clear, direct stare on the ground, as is appropriate, and hurries away.

Yes, there’s more intelligence there than first appears. Arthur has a good thing in the boy.

***

That night, he’s lying awake and remembering Arthur laughing and golden in the firelight, and missing Ygraine so fiercely that his chest hurts with a sharp, piercing ache.

She should have been beside him tonight, watching Arthur with him, smiling at their son. She should be beside him now, stretched next to him in one of her lacy nightgowns, or naked, her long pale body up against his, toying with him and smiling that wicked smile he loved so much.

He’s hard thinking about it, like so many nights when he’s missed her—he used to hate it, to think it was sacrilege to turn her memory into some prurient fantasy for his body to enjoy, but there is only so much deprivation a healthy body can take, and for a long time after her death, he never became aroused without thinking of her. He learned to accept the fact that he had always wanted his wife and would always want his wife.

He doesn’t think of her when he takes himself in hand, though. Not tonight, not any night. He turns his lust to pretty things in the court, girls or boys who will mostly never know that they had caught the king’s eye. Sometimes—rarely—he takes one to bed. But a king cannot afford weaknesses, and a lover, or God forbid a bastard—no.

There were several at the banquet tonight who caught Uther’s attention, briefly; Lady Janice had a new gown that plunged indecently far, and her eyes were downcast and smoky. He can easily imagine her here with him now, melting under his mouth, sliding her skirts up and letting her legs fall open—he moves his hand faster, but his mind has other ideas; it wanders away from her, looking for something else.

Sir Theodore has a mouth that would tempt anyone to sin, but Uther tries not to fantasize about his knights if he can help it; it isn’t what they’re there for and he won’t put them in that position, even privately. Perhaps a servant instead—his mind’s eye alights on Merlin, and almost involuntarily he’s picturing the boy on his knees, red mouth opened wide, clear eyes darkened with lust. Uther groans quietly, thinking about it; Merlin’s skin is white and smooth, and he would go down to his knees ungracefully, maybe clutching at Uther to keep from falling. He’d close his eyes at Uther’s hand in his hair, make little muffled noises on his cock. Then, perhaps Uther would lift him back to his feet, run a thumb across that soft cheek, under the damp sooty lashes, and push him down to sprawl on the bed, fuck him open until he was whining for it—he groans softly, jerking himself faster, and thinks of pushing into Merlin’s lithe body until he comes all over his hand.

When he’s finished, he catches his breath and wipes his hand on the sheet. Perhaps someday—well, that’s more Arthur’s prerogative than his own. He turns over and closes his eyes; maybe now he’ll be able to sleep.

***

Whenever he’s in the king’s presence, Merlin is always very, very aware of where Uther is and what he’s doing. He tries to know even when he’s nowhere near Uther, although he has a harder time with that part. But he’s never been able to shake the vague worry that any second now, Uther’s going to realize he’s a sorcerer and order his immediate execution.

At least it’s a healthy worry.

So something in the back of his mind, some survival instinct, has Merlin tracking Uther’s movements, glancing over at him every few minutes, being careful to know where he is and what he’s paying attention to. Generally it’s some combination of Arthur, Morgana, and official business. Merlin’s only noticed as part of Arthur’s outfit or furniture or something, except on the (usually really awful) occasions where Merlin becomes part of official business.

Except recently.

Just a minute ago, Merlin glanced over to reassure himself that Uther hadn’t spontaneously decided to order any mass executions, and Uther was looking _back_ at him. 

It wasn’t the first time, but even so he wasn’t ready for it; it was like a physical shock, realizing that he wasn’t anonymous, that Uther had _seen_ him and he hadn’t even known it.

He doesn’t know what it means.

It wasn’t a glare, it wasn’t a serious frown, it wasn’t the _Sorcery!_ face. Merlin has been on the receiving end of several of Uther’s expressions of displeasure, and watched many, many more from the sidelines, and he doesn’t think this was one.

It was—thoughtful, maybe. Contemplative. Something.

At least he didn’t seem to care that Merlin was looking back. Nobility who _do_ see him regularly tend to get angry when he forgets to keep his eyes down like a proper servant. And while Sir Jamison or Lady Iris might just smack him on the side of the head, Uther could send him to the stocks for a week, or hang him or have him burned to death or something.

It’s one thing—possibly _the_ one thing—that Arthur has never complained about. He looks directly back at Merlin, too—always, when it’s important. 

Arthur and Uther are alike, in that; they can pin someone with a glance. When Arthur does it—Merlin can’t say he _likes_ it, but some of the most important moments of his life have happened under that look. Sometimes in Merlin’s nightmares, all he can see is Arthur’s determined, triumphant stare after he drank from the druid’s goblet; somehow it wasn’t real until Arthur lifted his eyes to Merlin’s.

When Uther does it, a bright, nervous energy floods through him—not quite what he feels under Arthur’s stare, not quite _run-for-your-life!_ He doesn’t like it.

He catches Uther looking at him once more that night. Everyone’s drifting out of the hall, drunk and full and stupid, Uther’s eyes are half-lidded, his gaze isn’t as sharp, and he’s smiling a little.

“What’s wrong?” Gwen asks, and he jumps. She’s standing right next to him, somehow.

“Um—nothing,” he says, _obviously_ a lie (someday, he vows, he will be a good liar), but she accepts it with a smile and follows after Morgana.

_ Nothing’s wrong _ , he tells himself, but it doesn’t change anything: still obviously a lie. Uther Pendragon was watching him, and he doesn’t know what it means but he can feel it under his skin. He doesn’t like it.

***

It’s possible Merlin’s been in Camelot too long; when Uther gets sick, he’s ready to scour the land (or at least the castle) for the evil sorcerer responsible. It takes several minutes of lecture before he’s really convinced that it’s perfectly normal influenza.

“All the symptoms point to it,” Gaius says for the third or fourth time, collecting instruments and bottles from around the room. “All those I’ve seen, anyway. Since you’re so concerned, though, you can come and help me examine him more thoroughly. If I discover anything unusual, you’ll be the first to know. And you can hold all the jars.”

“Er,” says Merlin, “Arthur wanted me to—”

Gaius dumps a basket of who-knows-what in Merlin’s arms and says, “Come along, then,” before Merlin can say, _polish all his armour_ or _mend his sheets_ or _spend all of today at his side_.

Uther’s chamber is enormous, of course, and his bed is even bigger than Arthur’s—Merlin’s never understood how nobles can sleep in all those cushions—but he still manages to look imposing, somehow, even pale and sweating under the covers. Maybe it’s the way his jaw is set like stone; Merlin can see the muscles clenched from across the room.

“Ah, Gaius,” he says when they enter, visibly ungritting his teeth, and then his eyes shift to the left and he says, “And Merlin. You’d do well to rid me of this illness as quickly as possible; I’m not suited to the life of an invalid.” Uther’s lips twitch, and a hand motion indicates the pillows, the darkened room.

Gaius steps right up to the bed, and Merlin almost forgets to follow him across the room, too occupied with utter shock at being _acknowledged_ , and—was that a joke? He scrambles forward at the last second, and ends up by the bed before he’s ready; Uther has pushed back the covers, and Merlin is suddenly confronted with his king’s _chest hair_ , which he feels is unfair this early in the day. Shirtless, Uther looks like any other middle-aged man—or, any other middle-aged man who’s spent most of his life at war. This isn’t Arthur’s chiselled perfection (which Merlin has absolutely never been jealous of)—his muscles look _used_ , ropy and scarred under the damp, tanned skin. 

It’s shocking, almost, to see Uther without his stiff, official layers of clothing, tabard, mail, gloves, cloak, crown. Just bare skin like anyone else’s bare skin.

“Influenza has no true cure, sire, just palliatives until the illness passes on its own.” Gaius’ voice startles him back to reality, and Merlin begins his terribly important job of holding things and passing things. “A full examination should reveal everything we need to know about this strain of the disease, but at this moment I would say it is not a severe case. You should be back on your throne in less than a week, and fully recovered within two.”

“Good,” Uther rasps. “I haven’t felt this uncomfortable since the last time we were forced into a winter campaign.”

Gaius just smiles at that, and pulls the covers down further.

Merlin tries to keep his head turned during the examination, because there are some things he _doesn’t_ need to know about the king, but his eyes move, traitorously, to take in the muscled back, slightly softened middle, powerful thighs, and—he stares downward, cheeks burning. _Yes, all right_ , he tells himself, _every man has one, even the king; it’s not as if you’re a child, you’ve seen them before_. He looks again, deliberately, because it _shouldn’t_ be an issue; Uther has stretched back with his eyes closed, uncaring, and Gaius certainly isn’t embarrassed. His cock lies soft and heavy between his thighs, and Merlin can’t—seeing _Uther_ spread out naked and ill on his bed, sweaty and coughing, salt-and-pepper hair curling all over his body—it makes him too close, too real, too human. He looks away.

Gaius _finally_ finishes examining and pulls the covers back up. “Well, sire, everything seems normal for a case of the ’flu,” he says, and his words are addressed to Uther but he’s giving Merlin a sharp look. Merlin takes a deep breath and smiles and rolls his eyes just like he would if he _hadn’t_ just seen the king naked. Normal. Right.

Uther opens his eyes and says, “Good. I’m sure you have something for me to take.”

“Several somethings, Your Highness,” says Gaius, and reaches over for half the contents of Merlin’s basket. “This should help with the cough, and this with the congestion, and take this for the headache.”

Merlin tunes out Gaius’ voice, looks at the floor like a proper servant until he hears Uther speaking again and can’t help glancing up, though he knows he shouldn’t.

“Thank you, Gaius,” is all Uther says—but then his eyes flicker to Merlin and he adds, “And Merlin. You may go.”

Gaius bows, and Merlin belatedly follows suit; his eyes don’t want to follow his head down, but he fixes them firmly on the floor.

“Oh, and Gaius,” Uther says, as they’re nearing the door—Gaius turns, Merlin just manages not to bump into him and drop the basket, and nearly misses Uther saying, “You needn’t bother coming up here yourself just to deliver the medicines. If you aren’t performing an examination, just send the boy.”

“Thank you, Sire,” says Gaius, getting a _really firm_ grip on Merlin’s arm before he can flinch or object or run away, and tugging him out of the room with a last bow.

Merlin somehow waits until they can reasonably be assumed to be out of earshot before he says to Gaius, “Do I really—”

“Yes,” Gaius sighs, and Merlin falls silent, clutching at his basket. He’s silent all the way back to their rooms, which makes Gaius look at him oddly, but he leaves Merlin alone.

When they get back, he shuts himself into his room for a bit, sits on his bed and curls around his knees, thinking very carefully about Uther lying naked in his sickroom. He’s starting to understand why Uther’s looking at him, and—

On the one hand, it’s not as if he hasn’t had sex before, and it’s not as if Uther is _bad-looking_.

On the other hand—

Well, on the other hand, he doesn’t want to go back in there on his own. 

***

When Gaius sends him up the next day, Uther is sitting up in bed, and wearing a _shirt_ , thank God, though fever is still flushing his face and dampening his skin, and Merlin can hear his breath rasping in his throat. Merlin bows, sets his basket down, and starts placing full jars on the bedside table and putting empty jars in the basket.

“Thank you, Merlin,” says Uther when he’s done, and that’s another thing, how Uther is suddenly using his _name_ all the time.

“Sire,” he says with another bow.

There doesn’t seem to be anything else, and he’s about to make his escape when Uther says, “Come here.”

It’s hard to breathe, suddenly. He should protest, but he can’t think what he’d say and he doesn’t know what would happen if he did. He sets the basket down and goes.

When he’s at the bedside, Uther reaches out a hand and touches his face.

Merlin’s frozen in place; he can’t breathe and his cheek is hot under Uther’s hand. The king’s fingers are calloused and faintly scarred, and they catch a little against his skin as Uther moves his hand. Merlin closes his eyes involuntarily when Uther sets a thumb against his cheekbone, and just for a second, his only reference point is that large, rough hand cupping his face. He can’t stand it; he opens his eyes and draws in a shuddering breath, as Uther sweeps his thumb slowly along the curve of his cheekbone.

All told, it’s maybe ten seconds before Uther’s hand falls away again. Maybe less, even, before Uther says, “You may go,” eyes burning into Merlin’s side as he stumbles his way to his basket, scoops it up, and leaves the chambers without remembering to bow, glass clinking with every step.

Outside, he rounds a corner and falls against the wall, drops the basket with a clatter and shoves his hands against his face. The left side doesn’t feel any different under his hand; there’s no reason his skin should be burning as if Uther had transferred his fever with a touch.

Maybe that’s it. Maybe this really is sorcery, and it’s controlling Uther’s mind, and it’s _contagious_ , and now Merlin’s infected.

He really hopes that’s it.

It takes several minutes before he can breathe normally again, before the air starts to feel its normal temperature and his legs are solid enough to carry him back to Gaius’ quarters.

***

After that, he’s just waiting for the summons, feeling Uther’s eyes heavy on him whenever he’s in court, knowing it’s coming. He’s vague with Gaius and snippy with Arthur (oh God, _Arthur_ , he doesn’t even know—this is almost a worse mess than the last seven or eight things that have gone horribly wrong, the only good part is that probably no one is going to _die_ ) and he’s worked himself into a vibrating tension when it finally arrives.

“Merlin, the king’s manservant is ill; you’re to wait on him tonight,” says the bored-looking steward; Merlin is just on his way back from Arthur’s chamber to Gaius’, and there are no duties, no excuses, no ways out.

“Be right up,” he says, tongue feeling heavy in his mouth. The steward lets him know how he feels about Merlin’s impertinence with a heavy sniff, and stalks off.

Merlin takes a few deep breaths, feeling hot and cold all at once, and goes.

Uther’s waiting for him, of course; he says, “Come,” when Merlin knocks at the door of his chambers, and he’s watching when Merlin comes in and shuts the door behind him, and then, after a (shameful, eternal) second of hesitation, bars it.

Uther doesn’t tell him to come over, or take off his clothes, or anything at all, just watches Merlin until he starts walking across the room. It feels like it takes years to get to the bed. Uther is sitting on the edge, in just a loose, soft shirt and trousers. When Merlin comes into reach, he puts a hand on Merlin’s head, like he did the last time Merlin was here. His hand is warm and rough, like it was then, and the touch is a little too firm.

And this time, the fingers are tangled in his hair, rather than resting against his face; this time, they’re pressing down.

Merlin slips to his knees like his bones are made of water, like Uther's the one who has magic; he hesitates, and then thinks, _fuck it_. He’s doing this; best not to think about the _why_ , and just _do_ it.  He reaches out to touch, hard thighs underneath his hands, sliding up and under the shirt, to smoother, softer skin—and Uther grabs one of his wrists, stopping him, and skims out of the shirt in one fluid motion, the trousers in another, leaving them pooled on the floor next to Merlin's knee. And now all Merlin can see is Uther's cock in front of him, large like he'd known it would be, even just seeing it soft.

Merlin knows how to do this; he's done it before, and he can feel the rush of wetness in his mouth, thinking about it, and then Uther makes an impatient noise and says, "Well? I imagine you've seen one before," and before he can say something cheeky and probably get his head cut off, Merlin leans forward and takes Uther's cock into his mouth.

It's big and thick and it fills him almost to choking; he pulls off a little and tongues under the head, giving himself a minute to get used to it, and Uther groans above him. The hand falls on his head again, and this time it's firmer, fingers pressed heavily into his hair, and he knows he's not going to be pulling up again.

Oh, God, he's sucking Uther's cock.

He can't think about it, or—he doesn't know what he'll do; probably something in the room will spontaneously explode, and then he really _will_ be killed. So instead of thinking, he closes his eyes and sucks.

Sucking dick in the dark is familiar, he tells himself; he did it with Will, loads of times, and once or twice since he got to Camelot, slightly drunk after standing for hours at the big banquets, feet hurting enough that falling to his knees was a relief. This is almost the same.

He inhales through his nose, and there's the faint metal scent that clings to anyone who wears mail regularly, and the heavy expensive smell of Uther's soap or unguent or whatever kings use—it's not the same at _all_ , this is King Uther in his mouth, Uther making another low, deep noise above him, Uther's fingers in his hair.

He slides his tongue along the shaft, swallows to keep from drooling, sucks a bit more. His knees are hurting. The bedspread is velvety under his fingers. His stomach is a mass of heat and tension, so that he's almost afraid to duck down too far, not wanting to trip his gag reflex. He's sucking the king off in the royal bedchambers. Heat is rising off his face in waves, sweat dampening his skin, and all he can smell is Uther.

Uther's hands clench in his hair, and it takes Merlin a minute to realize that Uther is pulling him off. He goes, blinking.

"Good," says Uther softly, and now the thumb is back, this time running over his mouth. "You're good with your mouth."

Merlin closes his eyes. He doesn’t—this shouldn’t—

He can’t finish the thought, because Uther’s arms are sliding under his, lifting him to his feet, and then with a sudden twist, he’s been rolled over onto his back, sprawled out on the bed with Uther between his thighs. Uther strips his clothes off, big hot hands running down his sides and under his thighs; Merlin shudders, and lifts his arms to let his shirt come off, his hips for the trousers. He watches the canopy as thick, slick fingers open him up, lets his legs fall open and tries not to think.

When Uther pushes into him, he can’t help the high whine in the back of his throat; his teeth are clenched but he can’t stop the sound, jerking along with Uther’s first long thrust.

"Oh, _God_ ," he says—he can't help it, it just slips out, he doesn't want to say _anything_ but Uther is driving into him, one hand braced on the bed, one reaching out again for his face, like Uther just can't keep his fingers away from Merlin's cheek, his mouth, his hair. Merlin turns into the hand, blindly. Uther's thrusts are powerful, steady. He wants to twist away or arch into it—something to give him some kind of control over this, but he doesn't have the leverage and Uther isn't going to give it to him.

He's speeding up, though, and Merlin's able to shift just a tiny bit, just enough that Uther's cock is dragging over that spot inside him, enough that he can't stop thinking and just relax into the sex, pleasure sparking behind his eyes, getting better and better and better—he feels it coming, lets it happen, shuddering and spasming under Uther’s body. 

By then, he doesn't know if Uther's even noticed; the thrusts are speeding up again, really driving into him, and Merlin's boneless beneath him, riding the aftershocks.

He reaches out—he doesn’t know why—he reaches out and wraps a hand around Uther's bicep, where it's flexed, holding his weight. It's a stupid thing to do; it's rock-hard beneath his hand, and Uther barely reacts at all. But he holds on anyway. He doesn’t know why.

Uther's face is contorted, ferocious when he comes—he doesn't look like he's seeing Merlin under him, and that isn’t a surprise at all, really. But there’s a hollow feeling low in his stomach, anyway.

  
_end_   



End file.
